Mean Streak(47)

“Dark gray,” he said, and she smiled. “Are you hungry?”

“Yes, but I wouldn’t eat anything that came out of this house.”

“Some water?”

“If you wash the glass first and you’re the only one to handle it.”

“I wouldn’t have it any other way.” He moved the chair from beneath the doorknob and was about to open it when she stopped him with a question.

“The brothers were fighting when I came out to get you. What was that about?”

“Me.”

“You?”

“Will asked me if I was a homo.”

“How crass. What did you say?”

He looked at her for a moment, then removed his hand from the doorknob, placed it around the back of her neck beneath her hair, and pulled her up to receive his kiss—his open-mouthed, exploratory, evocative, and unshy kiss, which started out slow but soon acquired an urgency that was barely contained.

He kissed her like he meant it, like this kiss was going to be the last thing he ever did on earth, and he was going to do it right, thoroughly, and leave nothing wanting.

But she was left wanting, and judging from the rapid rise and fall of his chest and the fever in his eyes when he jerked his head back, he’d been left wanting, too.

Roughly, he said, “I told him no.”

*





The crisis came a little after four o’clock. Lisa gripped her lower abdomen and cried out.

“I know it hurts.” Emory had never experienced anything worse than mild menstrual cramps. She’d never conceived, never miscarried, and, if she had, she would have gotten immediate and ideal medical care. The girl’s evident suffering affected her beyond her professional objectivity.

After her second cry, the bedroom door was flung open and Pauline marched in. “Mr. Whatshisname there wasn’t going to let me in, but short of hog-tying me, he couldn’t keep me out.”

He who’d been standing guard outside the bedroom looked at Emory with chagrin. “I swear to you that I wouldn’t hesitate to hog-tie Norman or Will, but I’m no match for Pauline. I’ll be right outside the door.” He stepped back and pulled it closed.

When Lisa saw her mother, a look of relief washed over her face, as though she’d been excused from having to make a difficult decision. “Mama?”

She extended her hand. Pauline gripped it as she sat down on the edge of the bed. Looking up at Emory, she said, “I was the eldest, and all my brothers and sisters were born at home. I ain’t squeamish. I can massage her belly.”

Twenty minutes later, Emory left mother and daughter alone. Pauline was cooing to the girl, her calloused and unmanicured hand amazingly gentle as she smoothed back Lisa’s hair from her forehead.

Emory went to the door and opened it. He was there as he’d said he would be, standing sentinel. The brothers were asleep. Will snored from the sofa. Norman was in the recliner, his head resting against his shoulder, a string of drool dangling from his lower lip.

Emory had the plastic trash can liner, now closed with a tightly tied knot at the top. “This needs to be disposed of. I suggest burning it.”

He took it from her without a qualm. “How is Lisa?”

“Much better. I’m close to convincing them that she should have a follow-up physical examination. But I think she’ll be all right. I’d like to stay with her for a while longer, just to make sure.”

He nodded and turned away to do his chore.

Shortly after that, Emory and Pauline gave Lisa a sponge bath and changed the bedding. The fresh sheets were dingy but clean. Pauline carried out the soiled ones and told Emory she was going to make coffee.

Emory took Lisa’s blood pressure, but even before she’d removed the cuff, the girl’s head was sunk deep into the pillow and her eyes were closed.

Arching her back to work out the kinks, Emory walked over to the window and looked out. She thought her eyes were playing tricks on her. The sun wasn’t up yet, but there was enough predawn light for her to make out a large form, kneeling down beside the dog, stroking its head, and talking to it with words she was certain didn’t matter to the abused animal. It was responding to the first kind touch it had probably ever experienced. It ate a morsel of food from his hand, then licked his palm in gratitude.

“Is he your boyfriend?”

Emory looked over toward the bed and was surprised to see that Lisa was awake and observing her. “No. We just met.”

“What’s his name?”

“He’s a very private man.”

Lisa studied her for a moment, then said, “You don’t know it either, do you?”

She gave the intuitive girl a rueful smile. “No.”

“I’ve seen him working in his yard when we’ve driven past his place. He always scared me.”

“Why?”

“For one thing, he’s so big.”

“He is.”

“And kinda broody looking. I never saw him smile before last night.”

“He’s not inclined to very often.”

“He smiles at me, though. And at Mama. And at you.”

She had the knowing look of a woman, and Emory realized that she must have witnessed the kiss, the kiss that caused a curling sensation low in her belly every time she thought about it. The kiss that had lulled and electrified her at the same time. She had never felt safer or more endangered.